K. R. Treadway
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Sunglasses 2: Welcome to Drywell
🕑 Added 2024-07-28 17:55:43 +0000 UTC
Before we go further, I should talk about Drywell. Considering how everything turned out, I guess this is sort of a eulogy. No. Damn…that’s way too dark. Must be more jittery than I realized. Anyway…
Drywell isn't a town. It's not even big enough to be a village. Derry Wagner once pushed the idea that it was “an attitude about living life,” but I’ve seen Derry stick a black snake firework up his nose and light it; his wisdom is nil. According to the State of Kansas, Drywell is an “unincorporated hamlet,” which is a nice way of saying it’s a name on a map and not much else. But I have my own definition.
Drywell is a family.
If that has you conjuring up cozy scenes of small town life, pump the brakes. I meant that in the most exhausting sense of the word. As in, a group of people that you can't easily separate from, but who you still love in spite of everything—even after they set fire to a windmill trying to deep-fry a Thanksgiving turkey. We’re not talking The Donna Reed Show kind of family, here.
Let me introduce you.
First, you need to meet our founding father. Don’t worry, this history lesson will be short—we don’t have much to spare.
Drywell was founded in the 1920s by a man name Aloysius Apollo. I’m not making that up. Honestly, Aloysius—a guy whose name was genuinely unironic back then—is the perfect patriarch for us. He was either a visionary or a conman. It doesn’t matter which because he sucked at his job.
I know all this because, when I was little, we had to do a project on our “home town.” This was in Hoisington Elementary, by the way. That's where the kids of Drywell, all four of us, were bussed for schooling. Hoisington is a real town. It’s got a hospital, a newspaper, street signs, and streets to put the signs on.
While all the Hoisington kids were learning about their history by visiting a statue in a park, me and Stacy Sherman and the Wagner brothers had to study a blurry photocopy of “Aloysius Apollo: Icarus of the Plains,” a pamphlet written by a professor at Wichita State University in 1974.
Good ol’ Apollo was a dowser, that thing where you wander around holding metal rods or a Y-shaped stick and try to sense precious resources under the ground. Usually it was water or gold, but Aloysius was special. He was a “petroleum dowser.” Guy was convinced there was oil here. He bought a lot of land with investment funds and then brought in laborers and their families to start drilling. He named the small settlement “Blackwell.”
I think you can figure out that our modern name is a spoiler.
Aloysius Apollo managed to string investors along until the Great Depression, when he ran out of money along with everyone else. He never found a drop of “black gold.” On the plus side, there was enough leftover infrastructure to serve as a hub for local farmers, so that’s what Drywell became. And that’s our history. Every dry drop.
I got an B on the assignment.
As for 21st century Drywell, it’s still defying the odds and hanging on—or it was before the storm. But that’s part of the story. Two years back, Drywell had a surprisingly robust economy for a double-digit population.
Our biggest business, with five employees, is the AAAA Grain Company. It’s also Drywell’s biggest landmark: a cluster of grain elevators that looks like a six-pack of tall boys towering seventy feet above the plains. Grams once told me it started as the AA Grain Company, after the initials of Aloysius Apollo, but they added an A in the fifties when farmers started asking what happened to the business’s “triple-A” rating. Then, when the original owner died, his son tacked on one more because “four was gooder than three.” We just call it the “Quad A” these days, but don’t count out a fifth A in the future.
Drywell’s second landmark is Oz Gas N Snak, aka the social hub of our community. You’ve already met, but I’ll reacquaint you: a gas station with two pumps and a small but well-stocked convenience store. We even have a full booth and half-booth inside.
But the Gas N Snak is only the face. The actual business is Oz Fuel Supply, which earns most of its income by trucking diesel to outlying farms. We have an ancient tanker truck that does the honors, and it parks at the Snak when it’s not making deliveries. OFS employs three, and I’d better give you the roster in case you meet them.
If you hadn’t guessed, my job is to manage the gas station and store. I’m good at it for the most part, but lately I’ve been distracted by a certain five-minute encounter with a certain mysterious girl. When I’m not working, I live in the single-wide trailer behind the store.
Lucille is the fifty-something woman who drives the tanker; I’ve never seen her smile or remove her Peterbilt hat, but she gives me a Christmas card every year.
Seventeen-year-old Rory is our third. He works the day shift opposite me. He also belongs to the family who owns the Quad A. I think it’s a case of teenage rebellion.
Our company’s owner, Raymond, shows up once a week to check in. He lives in Hoisington. The guy owns six businesses, but really only seems to care about disc golf.
The Quad A and Oz Gas Supply are the big players. And since I’m out of legitimate businesses, I guess it’s time to meet the first family of Drywell. Calling what they do a “business” is a bit of a stretch, but since the Wagner brothers and I go way back, let’s be generous.
Patriot Fireworks Emporium is a half-trailer fireworks store run by Terry and Derry on an infrequent schedule. It’s open about two hours a day, and those hours are rarely in a row. The PFE sits across the street from the Gas N Snak. Yes, I’m aware of the implications of a fireworks stand that close to a gas station and diesel truck. Yes, I sleep elsewhere on the Fourth of July.
The Wagners’ place is also across the street, set back behind the fireworks trailer. It’s a tired sprawl made up of a ranch-style home, half-a-dozen outbuildings, and a semi-charred windmill that begins to shriek every year until I brow-beat one of the brothers into oiling it.
Terry and Derry live with their divorced mother, Muriel, who still goes by “Mrs. Wagner.” She’s not included in the list of businesses because her cookies and Tarot card readings are more of a side hustle. They own a pet pig named Hogzilla. Big enough to qualify for the state fair or a carnie side-show, she helps bring in business because folks like to stop and take pictures.
There’s one last member of the Drywell family I should mention. It wouldn’t be right to leave her out.
Grams. My actual grandmother. A little over two years before this story begins, I scattered her ashes into a prairie sunrise at exactly 7:45 a.m. My Grams started every day at the same time, and I made sure she wasn't late for her last one. She was…yeah. I miss her. For now, just know Grams is the reason my pop culture references are fifty years out-of-whack.
Damn, I really went on there. Grams would have said, “The plains already have enough wind, Calvin.” Did all of that count as rambling? I don’t know. It feels important, at least to me. But a different wind is picking up, so I’d better pick up too. I’m kind of surprised I’m not more chilly, to be honest. Where was I? Oh! The second time I saw Mel Wade.
It was a couple of weeks after our first encounter, in late April. I was just getting back to Drywell with my groceries, riding in the passenger seat beside Terry Wagner. I didn't have a car, but Terry and Derry shared ownership of an old two-door Bronco, and they made a supply run to Hoisington once a week.
This week was Terry’s turn, which meant it was safe to tag along. With Derry I was more likely to just give him ten bucks to pick up an order—the alternative was throwing myself out of a moving vehicle once I’d reached my daily Derry limit.
“Made good time,” Terry observed as we passed the Quad A. He adjusted his Royals ball cap over his scraggly shoulder-length hair.
I made agreement noises. It had been an unusually nice ride. Terry hadn’t been too talkative, and spring had decided to show up for once. The sun felt good, the breeze was cool, and the passing fields were a perfect gold-green in the afternoon light.
We were almost to the Gas N Snak when a pale yellow smudge set my pulse into overdrive. I had to be dreaming. Terry said something as I sat up and leaned forward. Could it really be…
“Are you listening?” Terry asked.
“Nope,” I said. All my attention was on the little roadster parked at the edge of the gas station’s lot. Pale yellow, kind of a quirky hatchback. It was the same car. I was sure of it.
She’s here.
The Bronco’s wheels crackled over the poorly-maintained asphalt. “I said that we should grill out this weekend. Momma made a killing on the Tarot”—he pronounced it to rhyme with “carrot”—“and I picked up some extra dogs and burgers. Stace broke up with that college kid so I thought maybe—” He broke off. “Hey hey, clock that vintage ride.”
I was clocking. I was practically mashed up against the window. When Terry parked next to the convenience store, I opened the door and started walking, groceries temporarily forgotten. Terry made some kind of protest, but I was too busy smoothing my shirt and running my fingers through my hair. I’d apologize later. First I needed to know I wasn’t hallucinating.
What was she doing here? Why had she come back? No one comes back to Drywell. I was so excited that it didn’t occur to me how creepy I was being until I’d already scuffed to a halt beside the driver’s side door.
“What the fuck am I doing?” I muttered. “It was five minutes, Cal. Five minutes. You’re acting deranged.” Thank God she wasn’t behind the wheel.
A faint creak sounded from the other side of the car. Through both windows, I saw a head rise into view. Messy pony tail. Generous lips. Dark sunglasses. One raised eyebrow. Mel Wade.
What the hell! What was she doing there? A tire. She could have been changing a tire. Oh Jesus…oh fuck. Had she heard me? Mortification crashed down. I was mentally flailing.
Recognition seemed to jolt her. She leaned closer, placing slender fingers on the window. “Cal?” she said.
What happened next was pure reflexive instinct fueled by embarrassment. That is my defense.
I waved.
If I hadn’t been so stunned, or if I’d had time to prepare, it would have been chill. I know how to do a cool wave. One of those decisive chops with two fingers and a thumb that says, “Hey there, you. What luck that two mutually cool people like us get to meet again.”
But nerve impulses get confused when your mind is thrashing.
I could only watch, horrified, as my arm popped up like a cartoon character and my hand gave a spastic jiggle. It was a jazz hand. I was doing a jazz hand. I swear to God I have never waved at another person like that in my life. It kept going until I managed to cut the power and send my arm flopping back down.
Mel’s lips parted in bemusement. Her own hand came up and returned the wave. Two fingers and a thumb. Decisive chop. Fucking shoot me.
“Hi,” I said, too loud and too forced. “Mel, right?” It was right. Mel Wade. From Missouri. Her name had been gently bouncing off the inside of my skull since we’d met, like one of those screensaver logos that DVD players use.
She nodded. It was still just her head and hand visible through two car windows. She wasn’t moving or changing position, which was weird. This whole thing was weird. A faint pain started up between my eyes.
Just as I was about to flee, I heard Gram’s firm voice in my head, as clear as if she was standing behind me.
Stop with your nonsense, Calvin.
It had been one of her favorite sayings. She used it to scold, but more often she used it out of love, whenever I was being too hard on myself. And just like that, a switch flipped. It was exactly like last time. A sense of freedom. I had zero chance with Mel Wade, so why was I freaking out? Better to just enjoy the moment.
Sticking my hands in my pockets, I slowly walked around the car. On the other side, the mystery was solved: Mel was sitting up on one of those ratchety sun loungers. She’d unfolded it beside her car and been reclining when I wandered up.
“It’s good to see you again,” I told her.
“Good to be seen.” The corner of her mouth tilted up.
Oddly, she wasn’t dressed for proper sun bathing. In fact, her outfit was almost identical to the one she’d worn that first night. She had on a different long-sleeved shirt paired with khaki capris, but her white Chucks, still worn sockless, were the same. Today’s jaunty infinity scarf was plaid.
“Can I ask you something?” I said quietly.
She shifted, suddenly guarded. “Okay.”
“Did I just give you a jazz hand wave back there? Because I sort of blacked-out in the moment.”
I saw a flicker behind her glasses as she blinked, a hint of long lashes. And then her cautious expression opened into a broad smile that challenged the spring sunlight. “Sorry, Cal…you did. Full jazz hand. I think I even saw a sequined glove.”
“Dammit.” I laughed. “I am never going to be cool. I’ve lived out in the sticks my whole life. I don’t got that Hoisington polish.”
Mel shifted forward, bringing her feet under her until she was sitting cross-legged. “God…did you just imply that Hoisington is, like, the ‘big city’?”
“It’s got a Dollar General,” I said defensively.
“I refuse to dignify that with an answer.”
“Okay, well they have bars and restaurants.” Despite her outfit, she had gotten sun. That first night her skin had been a dusky pink. Now it was a warm tan with hints of copper, like she'd absorbed a piece of every sunset since then.
Mel’s expression turned speculative. “Is that where you take your dates?”
Was she…trying to find out my relationship status? Get real, Cal. I laughed it off. “What are these ‘dates’ you speak of? Is that more big city talk?”
Her warm chuckle joined mine. It seemed like she perked up a little. Was it because my dating prospects were as dry as our unincorporated hamlet’s name? More wishful thinking. Had to be.
Right?
Before I could get caught in a breathless brain loop like a grade-schooler freaking out over his first crush, Mel unfolded her legs and stood up from the lounger in one graceful movement. A swirl of color caught my attention.
“Oh wow,” I blurted, “what is that?”
A striking charm hidden in the folds of her scarf had tumbled loose. It was pink-purple and iridescent, made up of long flat strips with fuzzy ends. Something about the strips was familiar, but their length threw me for a second…then it clicked.
“Feathers,” I said triumphantly. “It’s made of feathers.”
“Yeah,” Mel replied after a moment. She gave a nervous laugh. “I source them online. They’re dyed.”
“Can I touch it?”
“Um…sure.”
I reached out and ran a single finger along the braided charm. I’d never seen such exotic feathers before, and the color made them appear otherworldly. They felt so soft. “It’s really pretty,” I said, unable to take my eyes off it.
“Thank you,” Mel said, her voice quietly proud. “I made it myself.”
Comments
K. R. Treadway
Lots of people in 2024 have DVD players. 😆
VeryFinePrint
> like one of those screensaver logos that DVD players use. 🗓️👀
